lameness checking each step like the jerk of a chain. There wassomething bleak and unapproachable in his face, and he was sostiffened and grizzled that I took him for an old man and wassurprised to hear that he was not more than fifty-two. I had thisfrom Harmon Gow, who had driven the stage from Bettsbridge toStarkfield in pre-trolley days and knew the chronicle of all thefamilies on his line.

"He's looked that way ever since he had his smash-up; and that'stwenty-four years ago come next February," Harmon threw out betweenreminiscent pauses.

The "smash-up" it was-I gathered from the same informant-which,besides drawing the red gash across Ethan Frome's forehead, had soshortened and warped his right side that it cost him a visibleeffort to take the few steps from his buggy to the post-officewindow. He used to drive in from his farm every day at about noon,and as that was my own hour for fetching my mail I often passed himin the porch or stood beside him while we waited on the motions ofthe distributing hand behind the grating. I noticed that, though hecame so punctually, he seldom received anything but a copy of theBettsbridge Eagle, which he put without a glance into his saggingpocket. At intervals, however, the post-master would hand him anenvelope addressed to Mrs. Zenobia-or Mrs. Zeena-Frome, and usuallybearing conspicuously in the upper left-hand corner the address ofsome manufacturer of patent medicine and the name of his specific.These documents my neighbour would also pocket without a glance, asif too much used to them to wonder at their number and variety, andwould then turn away with a silent nod to the post-master.